Bang. Bang. Bang.
Moan.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Moan.
Dahlia goes to Farcliff University, too, but she’s far from athletic—well, not in the traditional sense of the word. She runs her own athletics department from the comfort of her own bed.
No, Dahlia doesn’t need to wake up at four o’clock in the morning, or practice twice a day, six days a week. She doesn’t need to manage her protein intake down to the gram, or make sure her performance is stellar every single day just to keep her scholarship.
Unlike me, Dahlia can have manic, crazy sex every night of the week until the sun comes up…
… and she does.
When her voice goes up a couple octaves and a scream finally pierces the partition, I’ve had enough. My frustration boils over and I clamber onto my knees on the bed, banging my fist against the paper-thin wall so hard my knuckles bruise.
“Come on, you idiot! Make her come already!”
The squeaking stops. The moans pause.
Silence.
Then, the bead creaks once more as their weight shifts, and peals of laughter sound through the wall. I slump back down on my own bed, exhaling as I rub my hands over my face.
If Dahlia wasn’t the friendliest person I’d ever met—and if I could afford to live somewhere other than this rodent-plagued sex den—I’d definitely move out.
Unfortunately, though, I’m stuck here.
They move to the floor, thankfully. The floorboards aren’t nearly as noisy as the bed.
Bleary-eyed and grumpy, I somehow make it to practice on time. In the locker room, I pull on my thermal, skin-hugging workout tights. My sports bra has so many straps and support mechanisms that it looks like it was designed by NASA for a trip to outer space.
I strap the bra on and adjust it, locking the girls down nice and securely. When I pull on my workout top and lean over to shove my bag in my locker, I feel the chill of the air over my lower back. Clothes never fit properly over my tall, athletic body, but I’m used to it by now.
I used to hate my height when I was a kid. As a teenager, I’d see all the boys going gaga over petite, delicate little waifs—and I felt like an ogre in comparison. Then I grew these massive knockers and I hated them, too, because all the boys went gaga over my boobs and forgot that there was a person attached to them.
I’ve always been taller, broader, and stronger than most men. My size isn’t great for my love life, if I’m honest—I get friend zoned more often than I’d like to admit.
But my height means I can row. When I’m rowing, my breasts can be strapped down and kept out of the way. My rowing scholarship allows me to attend Farcliff University, where I’ll hopefully make something of myself—and I wouldn’t trade that opportunity for anything. With just over a year left until I graduate, I can honestly say that rowing has been my ticket out of a shitty, dead-end Grimdale life.
Would I like a gaggle of boyfriends to follow me around like a parade of little ducklings? Sure—why not? But am I going to stop rowing to get them?
Hell no.
Someone opens the locker room door and a blast of cold air whips through the room. I shiver, but I know as soon as I get out onto the water and start rowing, I’ll be warm.
Then, a nasally, pretentious voice pierces my ears. My lips turn downward.
“Did you get your invitation yet?” Olivia Brundle’s falsetto voice makes my stomach turn. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to deal with her this early in the morning—at least not until after I’d been on the water.
“Got it last night,” Olivia’s clone, Marielle Davenport, replies. “What are you going to wear?”
“Well, Charlie likes it when I wear something that shows off my legs,” Olivia says. She comes into view around the corner, flicking her long blonde hair over her shoulder. “So I’ll probably wear something short, or at least something with a thigh-high slit.” She titters, checking her nails.
Charlie.
Even at four o’clock in the goddamn morning, Olivia is name-dropping the Crown Prince of Farcliff. She talks about him as if they’re engaged already, even though Dahlia told me Olivia has only met him once before at a state event four years ago. Olivia’s father is the Prime Minister of Brundle, our neighbors to the south, so not only is she supremely annoying, but she’s also been told that she’s important since the day she was born.
Wonderful.
I tie my shoelaces loosely, knowing I’ll take them off as soon as my boat is in the water. I stand up, and Olivia steps into my path.
“Did you get your invitation to the Prince’s Ball, Elle?” She arches her perfectly groomed eyebrow and taps the side of her face with a manicured finger.
I don’t answer.
“Is that a no?” Olivia glances at Marielle, grinning, before turning back to me. “Oh, right, you’re just here as a charity case.” She laughs, and Marielle follows suit.
I try to step around Olivia, but she moves with me. Her expensive perfume wafts toward me as she blocks my path. She’s infuriating—right down to her long hair, curled into perfect, beachy waves that fall all the way down to her waist.
Seriously, who has time to curl their hair this early in the morning? I can just about manage to run a comb through my hair, and it’s so short it barely gets tangled to begin with.
As I take another step to the side, Olivia mirrors my movements again to stop me.
“What, cat got your tongue?”
“I just want to practice, Olivia. You already know I haven’t gotten an invite to that stupid party.”
Marielle snorts. Her beachy blonde waves are already tied back in a high ponytail. The look she gives me is just as withering as Olivia’s. “Stupid party? Elle, this isn’t a ‘stupid party’. This is where Prince Charlie chooses a wife.”
I bite back my laughter, looking between the
